


Good Boy

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, dark!strand, just general dark!strand fuckery, the dog survives...for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is asking for a dog. She’s asking him to bring her one. And who is he to deny her such a simple request?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

When the PNWS producers inform him that Alex has left Seattle for a mental health break, Dr. Strand only nods. Still hurt over her recording and publishing his “private” interview with Amalia, he demands an explanation and an apology. Over a cup of cheap, break room coffee they provide when he storms their office, he stiffly accepts their hasty platitudes and reasons for their co-worker’s improper behavior. It’s a dozen little things wrapped up in a pretty, Alex-shaped bow: stress, fatigue, insomnia, anxiety, exhaustion. He lets them drone on, nodding at the right time, letting his anger simmer underneath. He doesn’t need their reasons, he wants  _her’s_. 

“We pushed her when we should’ve reigned her in.” they say, their faces pleading him not to sue them.

“Yes, you should’ve protected her, “he says, his veneer of steady calm chipping away. And with that, he leaves as briskly as he came, swearing under his breath and cursing their incompetence to take care of his Alex. 

(He should’ve seen it coming. His always curious Alex could never resist the temptation of a good lead. It’s his fault, partially; he should’ve contacted Amalia himself. They should’ve chosen a place that wasn’t the wired offices of PNWS. But Alex should’ve respected his wishes for privacy in the first place.) 

Though sour over her transgressions and her running away from her problems and him, he accepts the fact that she needs a break from the pseudo-demons and his black tapes. Sunshine, warm sand, mai tais, and a five star hotel beach resort will do her well. He only wishes she invited him to keep her company. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity to clear the air between them and repair the bonds that survived. Depending on where they went, he could’ve played the guide for her, showing her around with his hand pressed gently against her back as he whispered facts and stories into her ear.

When he listens to the first sleep note -finding out that Alex fled to the safety of a cabin in the middle of the Olympic Peninsula instead of a beach resort and colorful alcoholic drinks- he tries his best not to scream in horror and in frustration. He bites his tongue and turns the potential scream into a fragile, rueful laugh- lead into gold.  It takes him all night to pack his bags and toss them into his car to brave the journey to find Alex, but it only takes his assistants one sentence and a few minutes to keep him from driving off.

“Do you even know where she is?”

Dr. Richard Strand knows plenty of things: languages foreign and arcane, what drives a man chase after a woman, sordid histories of religion, and countless urban legends that predate the infancy of internet. But the location of Alex Reagan’s little hideaway is not one of them. 

First he tries to bribe the PNWS interns. He offers them platitudes, thank you’s for their work, and promises of money and gifts. If he was a lesser man, he would’ve got on his knees and groveled. But the college kids give him spine-chilling looks and chase him off with scowls and curses muttered under their breath as he tucks his tail between his legs and retreats.

He goes to Nic and the producers, claiming that he’s concerned for her safety. (He is. Really. What kind of man would he be _not_ to be concerned for her safety?) He wants to check in on her, to apologize for his own less-than-stellar behavior and to accept whatever apologies she could give him. He is her friend after all, he reminds them. But, like the interns, they turn him away, albeit with more kindness. 

“She didn’t tell us where the cabin was,” they say with nervous, shifting eyes; the trademark sign of liars. “Trust us, had she told us, we would’ve told you even if she begged us not to.”

He thanks them for their time with a practiced smile. Only when he’s out of the office does the smile crack to clenched, exposed teeth. How dare they keep him away from her? He’s her friend just like they are; he has a right to see her. The urge to sue them for everything they were worth is more appealing as days pass by as he keeps searching. But what good would it do in the end? They would be forced shut down and Alex would be left without a job. 

(There are plenty of opportunities in Chicago. With her abilities and rapport -and maybe a good word put in by him and Jenna- other stations would be clamoring at her door for her voice and charm. There is plenty of space at his home if she needs a place to stay for a day or two. Or three. Or forever.)

He finally gets a break in his search when he confronts Amalia, catching her moving her belongings out of Alex’s apartment and into the back of a pickup truck. He doesn’t pull the sad, puppy-eyed act that he did for Nic and the producers; he knows she can see right through it. So they make a deal: he helps her move, she gives him Alex’s location. They shake hands on it and what would’ve taken her half an hour, takes her only ten minutes. Amalia gives him the spare key, the address to the cabin, and the directions. He pays for gas as an added bonus.  

Getting to see Alex’s home is the other -if unspoken- bonus. Of all the times she visited him in his hotel rooms, she never once invited  _him_ to her apartment. He makes sure to capture very little detail and ingrain it into his memory: the unmade bed and the wrinkled sheets ruined by numerous nights of unrest that smell like her shampoo; the Ikea showroom-esque living room, dining room, and kitchenette combo in a tasteful white and red color scheme to contrast with the cheap hardwood floor and brick walls; the plastic bottles of Bath & Body Works which contain her trademark synthetic, sugary sweet perfume that clutter her bathroom sink, and the scratchy flannel blankets draped over her thrift-store couch. (If this belonged to anyone else, he would’ve torn the room to shreds for offending his senses. But it belongs to Alex, and like her, its quaint and familiar.) Her perfume lingers in the air, teasing him and his senses with hints of watermelon, green apples, and vanilla. Every so often he whirls around after catching its scent, thinking she’s right behind him ready to greet him with open arms.

For the next few days, he stays at her place (he sleeps on the couch) and cleans it up for her inevitable return. He washes the dishes, takes out the trash, changes her sheets, does a round of laundry, and sorts out her closet, filling a small duffle bag to the brim with clothes with the intention to bring it to her when he visits. All the while, he dreams of the praise she’ll give him and her heart-felt apologies when he arrives. He’ll take it all with a wry grin and simply say he did what anyone would do for their partner.

The anniversary of the unsound passes without incident, he spends the day eating the leftover food in her fridge and packing his things in the car. Then he sees the notification, alerting him that Nic posted another of her sleep notes. He listens to it before he goes to bed. 

 _‘I wish I had a dog,’_  her weary, disembodied voice admits, softly whispering like a lover,  _‘Dogs just make things better. I never had one.”_

That single phrase plays over and over in his head until he wears it down like the tapes of his movie collection. Somehow, its banality manages to overtake his terror over her bear encounter, even conquering the jealousy that flares up when she mentions scratch marks on her legs. 

Despite the popular belief that he’s a cat person held by his associates at the university, he’s a staunch believer that dogs are superior over felines. He admires canine loyalty, their instincts to lead, to find leaders, and their ability to hunt and track. Dogs have family, cats have servants. He is no one’s servant. 

He had dogs while growing up; a pair of purebred German Shepherds named Diogenes and Penelope that his parents bought when he was a child. He remembers them fondly, their picture somewhere in his office in Chicago. They followed him wherever he went in the family home, always glued to his side. They even slept on his bed at night and waited at the door when he left for school. They weren’t hunters or retrievers but they knew how to learn and listen. When he wasn’t in the study or in class, he was out in the yard teaching them to obey. By the time he was a teen, he could command them with simple hand gestures or a whistle. They weren’t show dogs, but they were loyal and willing to love him, and he loved them in return. 

They died shortly in his first year in college; old age. They passed away while sleeping. He locked himself in his dorm and cried for three days after he got the news. He never got a new dog since. There was no point; there could never be a replacement for his pets. No other animal or human -not even his own assistants- could match the loyalty they displayed. 

(Then Alex came along and proved him wrong.)

The silence at the end of the sleep notes bring him back to the present and back to ponder on her request. Despite the dull ache of his past losses, he pushes it aside and focuses. Alex is asking for a dog. She’s asking  _him_ to bring her one. And who is he to deny her such a simple request? Her wish is his command. He is no one’s servant. But for Alex, he’d serve her the world on a silver platter.

Instead of sleeping, he looks up dog breeders in the Seattle area, scouring over credentials and pedigrees, even enlisting the help of his assistants who try and fail to hide the fact that he woke them up from their slumber. They work through the night, trying to find her the perfect companion. 

Ruby suggests the tougher, sturdier kind. (’By the way she runs headfirst into danger, she’ll need it,” Ruby reasons.) She sends him info on pitbulls, bulldogs, and rottweilers. He thinks it over, but as much as his Alex needs a fierce guardian, she also needs a pet lovable enough to curl up at her side and smart enough to leave the room when he’s present. 

(Besides, she doesn’t need a guard when he’s around.)

Melissa gives him a list of herding dogs; big, fluffy shepherds that would serve as the perfect replacement for fleece blankets. On the top of the list is a picture of a German Shepherd. He smiles despite the pain that gnaws on his heart. But, despite the cuddly appearances, he passes on them. They are working dogs and Alex does not simply have the space to keep such an active dog around. 

(His old home on the other hand has plenty of land for them.)

Jenna offers up a few companion dogs; small, beady-eyed, creatures with long hair and smashed faces. He can already hear high-pitched yipping and rejects her list without even giving her the chance to make her case. Dogs are not silent by nature, but Alex doesn’t deserve a tiny rat barking up a storm every time a leaf flutters by. 

Come morning, he’s left with nothing but a packed car, a map, a destination, and snakes coiling in his stomach. He loathes the idea of coming to Alex empty handed, of failing such a simple request. What would she say to that? Nothing good or kind, he reasons. He combs through articles and shelter websites again. There has to be a perfect dog for her. There just has to be. And if he has to go over to Nic’s place and steal his dog for the trip, so be it. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that when he sees it on the front page of a shelter nearby. His name is Michael, a purebred Golden Retriever, housebroken, 2 years old, healthy, and up to date with his shots. He pays the shelter a visit to see him in person. 

The people at the shelter assure him that Michael is well trained, knows the basic commands, sweet and loyal as any dog of his breed can be. He was dropped off when his previous owners moved and couldn’t take him with them. 

When he approaches the dog’s cage, the dog lifts its head and stares at him coolly, regarding him silently with brown eyes that absorb the light of the shelter. His tail flicks back and forth twice before he yawns -exposing well-kept teeth- and rests his head back on his front paws. The assistant frowns. 

“He’s practically a bouncing ball of fluff when people visit him.”

Strand smirks and tells her it’s alright. 

“Are you adopting him for yourself or for someone else?” the assistant asks.

“My wife,” Strand says instinctively. That word sends shivers down his spine as the image of Alex in a white dress claws at his brain. “We’ve been talking about getting a dog for ages. He’s perfect.”

The assistant laughs. Strand signs the paperwork and half an hour later of picking out supplies; he leads Michael to his car on a shiny red leash, lets him sit in the front, and packs his new belongings (a bed, bed, toys, a collar, food, and bowls) in the back. 

Michael is silent for the entire drive to the cabin. The only sounds that come out of his mouth are short, sharp whines when he needs to be let out and relieve himself or annoyed huffs, matching Strand’s when he gets lost. Other than that, he is a little angel, sitting still and attentive like a gilded statue. More than once, Strand catches himself scratching the dog’s ears, only made aware of the when Michael shakes his head, making the tags on his red collar ring like little bells.

It’s dusk when he pulls up to the cabin. It’s small and rustic, no doubt filled with uncomfortable furniture and poor plumbing. (He hopes there’s a fireplace where he, Alex, and Michael can curl up in front of.) He gets out, slams the door, and lets Michael out, keeping a firm grip on the lead. Michael’s energetic barks scare off the birds as he tries to capture bugs underneath his paws. 

His ruckus alerts the mistress of the cabin. Alex rushes out in a flurry, dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, slippers, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair wet from a bath. She looks at him and Michael, eyes mimics those of deer caught in headlights. He can see the effects of her being away from work (from him); the dark circles are lighter and color has returned to her skin in a healthy rosy glow pooling in her cheeks. She’s lovely, as always. 

She’s either surprised or scared to see him. It’s obviously the first; she has no reason to be scared of him.

“Dr. Strand?” she says, voice wavering, steeped in disbelief, as though he is a ghost instead of a human.

And before Strand can make a move, Michael stops his game with the bugs. He jerks away, freeing himself from Strand and the lead and bounds his way up the wooden steps, up onto the porch, and crashes into the legs of his new owner, sending her to the floor with a yelp. He pads around her, looking at his new found friend. He licks her face, barking warm and cheery greetings, his tail wagging like a golden flag. 

No amount of calling and cursing brings Michael back to his side. It is only when Strand storms over and yanks Michael back by the collar does he manages to rescue Alex from the devilish hound.

“I’m so sorry Alex,” he says as he helps her up, using his body to shield her from the over-eager dog. “They said he was well trained. Clearly they were wrong.”

He expects her to be angry, to call him every insult under the sun, and tell him and Michael to get the fuck out, or throw a punch at him. He expects her to be terrified, who wouldn’t after being assaulted by a full grown mutt? He expects her to cry, to plead for his mercy and forgiveness for her actions. He does not expect a belly laugh and her bending down with her arms open to receive the dog. But the mutt shies away.

“C’mon boy, don’t be shy!” she coos.

Michael whines, his attention devoted to Strand and the angry look he’s receiving. He lays and hides his face in his paws.

Alex pouts and makes a couple tongue clicking sounds. Michael stays in place. To his surprise, Alex slowly crawls over to Michael, takes the blanket from her shoulders, and places it gently on top of Michael.

“It’s okay boy,” she says softly and sweetly, stroking his back with a steady hand. Michael lifts up his head and tilts it to the side.

The grin Alex has is brighter than he’s ever seen before.

“Who’s a good boy?” she asks with wide eyes, now glimmering in delight.

Michael snaps to attention. 

“You’re a good boy!” 

That simple, little statement makes Michael jump into the air with joy, tongue lolling as he alternates between barking, nuzzling his furry head into her shoulders, and licking her face. 

Strand looks on with a mixture of disgust and pleasure churning through his body. He’s pleased -no, ecstatic- that she loves his gift. But said gift is hogging all the attention.

He coughs politely. Woman and dog swivel to look up at him.

“I take it you like him?” he asks coolly as he swats away a bug that landed on his sleeve. Alex nods eagerly. Michael’s tail bangs the wood floor like a drum.

Alex pats Michael’s head one more time before she rises and makes her way to the cabin door. She opens it, Michael trots inside. Strand lingers. 

“I am sorry that I showed up so late.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. I-I appreciate you stopping by.”

The silence is quickly filled by night bugs as he searches for a line. From the corner of his eyes he sees Michael sniffing around the interior before leaping up on the couch and making himself at home.

“It’s getting late,” he finally says. 

But she still keeps the door open. Any other day he’d scold her for letting the bugs in, but he doesn’t need degrees to know what she’s hinting at. 

“It’s dangerous to drive at night,” she says.

“I have the high beams and the GPS,” he responds, smiling. He doesn't like playing these kinds of dancing-around-the-bush games, but he considers it as a small punishment for her invasion of privacy. A little slap on the wrist with a ruler, nothing serious. 

She scrunches up her face like she used to do back in the early, happier days. He smiles, pleased to know that he still has some effect of on her.

“They say it’s gonna rain. Those roads will become a swamp before you know it. Stay the night. There’s plenty of room.”

Michael barks. Strand shoots a glare at the mutt, but unlike before, Michael doesn’t hide. He only tenses.

“I don’t want to impose, Miss Reagan.”

“Richard,” she says in the tone used back when she was exasperated with their ‘believer-skeptic’ shtick in season one of her little show. Her eyes are wide in a silent plea. “I’m not turning you away after your spent god knows how many hours to come up here and give me a dog.”

“Alex-”

“Richard,” she says again, more forceful and stern this time. This is not a plea. This is a command.  “Guest room is to the right. Now, help me move your stuff before the bugs eat us alive.”

And with that, he lets her win. He really didn't need to play this, but he always gets some satisfaction of making her do the begging and the pleading ever once in a while.

A delighted spark of warmth and pleasure envelopes him as he and Alex move his things to his room, chasing out the cool April air. He packed lightly; two bags, two bags containing Alex’s things, and a large box full of stuff for Michael. After they get him settled in, they have a small, humble dinner. Tonight, its fried rice, baby carrots, and green peas served with a healthy side of rapid fire, but sincere, apologies. (It’s not a five star meal, but he’s a man that takes what is given in order to further his plans.) 

The cabin has a fireplace, much to his delight. It’s small, smaller than he’d like, but it’ll do for now until he can replace it. It’s big enough so they can eat in front of it, seated on the couch, with Michael on the floor by Alex’s feet, gnawing at a rawhide bone. The couch is tiny; they have to sit right next to one another, his thigh brushing up against hers. When they are done, she takes their plates, letting them sink in the sink instead of washing them immediately. She instead returns to her place on the couch, their thighs touching yet again and he has to claw desperately to restrain himself from doing anything rash or unbecoming.

He has many fantasies of Alex, all organized and filed neatly in his mind so not to lose them to memory loss. He has a fine memory, stellar even if he has to boast, but some of them, ones that he does not trust himself to take care of, he writes down in a little notebook he keeps locked away in the secret compartment in his desk back at his office in the institute.

Most of these fantasies are sexual; the few times he gives himself into base human nature. (He’s not ashamed of course; shame equals lack of confidence, and no one likes a man without confidence.) They serve as inspiration for the future with Alex. Its positions mostly, some kinks here or there to keep things interesting. He has no intention to fulfill all of them. That would be unreasonable for the both of them. That’s where the other fantasies come in, the domestic ones. It’s the calm moments where they lean against one another in silent compliance and knowing. It’s a total understanding of one another and their needs. It’s chaste and gentle touches, but they still contain a passion and intimacy not even a good hard fuck could rival.

And the position they are now -thigh against thigh, seated on a small couch that coaxes them to be closer, just sitting there while the crackling of wood and ember, teeth on bone, rain pattering on the roof, and sighs fills the smoky air, and a loyal dog at their proper position by its humans feet- feels just like one of those recorded fantasies. He wonders if Alex notices his hands shaking in excitement, desperate and wanting to touch and feel. If he were a stupid man, he would think Alex planned this from the beginning. He’s not mad, he likes it when she takes charge (so long as she knew when to give back the reigns every once in a while).

There’s only one little problem to their current position. There’s an extra body on the couch, separating him and Alex, a golden, canine body to be exact. As soon as Alex sat back down on the couch, Michael leapt up and promptly nestled himself on Alex’s leg.

He tries to force a smile as he watches her coo, cuddle, and spoil her new companion rotten like a child while Michael barks merrily, tail wagging rapidly and turning into a blur of gold, and she runs her fingers up and down his belly.

“Oh he’s so soft!” she cries, carding her fingers in the soft fur. The dog’s hind paws kick at his leg, leaving muddy prints behind on his suit pants. Lust quickly dials back to rage as his fingers own fingers -wanting to find purchase in Alex’s hair and hips- dig into the worn leather of the couch. 

He's never hit a dog, there was no reason to, but the urge to yank the mutt away from Alex is tempting. 

“Dogs belong on the floor, not on the couch Alex,” he says, scowling as he wipes the dirt off his pants. She only giggles and kisses the mutt’s head. He lets it slide this time, but when they live together, there will be stricter rules enforced on their pets. Furniture is for humans only. 

“My house, my rules, Richard,” she says, “He’s my blanket, so he stays!”

He lets her win that argument, she does look so happy and he would hate to ruin her good mood. 

He lets his hand rest on Michael’s belly, feeling the pale gold fur. She is right, his fur is soft and warm, perfect material to make a blanket out of. He is a medium sized dog, however. There isn’t enough body to produce the fur for a proper blanket to keep Alex warm in the cold Pacific Northwest nights. And besides, the mutt doesn’t deserve the space to occupy her bed. 

He’d be better suited as a small rug. The thought makes him smile, even when Alex goes to bed, joined by Michael who sleeps nestled in her arms like an over-sized teddy bear while he sleeps alone in the other room. Dogs have family, cats have servants.

 _‘And if that mutt thinks I’ll be the one rolling over to receive table scraps of Alex’s attention, he’s sorely mistaken_.’

Strand dreams of the bottle of antifreeze that he keeps his car. He’ll give the dog a few days of happiness before he punishes it for disobedience.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry. Anyways, I hoped you enjoyed this fic! Please dont be afraid to leave me any comments!


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